“She found out I was investigating. A neighbor told her. She brought me some tea and cookies. Kate, my heart is failing, and my head is foggy. I won’t be here when you get back, but you will be free. Forgive me. Your Dad.”
Walter sat beside her, weeping silently.
“He was a good man, your father. He looked terrible those last few months, but he never stopped digging for the truth. He said, ‘I won’t let my daughter rot in prison for someone else’s crime.’”
Kate placed the documents back in the folder. Her hands shook with a mixture of rage and grief. Her father had been murdered. Murdered for trying to prove her innocence. And she had spent five years in a cell, believing he had simply died of a broken heart.
The next morning, Kate went to the county sheriff’s office. The building was as dreary as she remembered: peeling paint, grimy windows, and the usual line of residents with minor complaints. At the front desk, she was met by Sheriff Brody—a heavyset man with a ruddy face and a permanent smirk.
“Well, well, look who it is,” he said without looking up from his paperwork. “Back again, Peterson? Five years wasn’t enough for you? Now you’re making up stories about your mother-in-law?”
Kate placed the folder on his desk. “Please, just look at this. It’s proof that I was framed, and that my father was murdered.”
Brody snorted and didn’t even touch the folder.
“There was no murder. The old man died of a heart attack. You’re just spinning tales to clear your name. Get out of here before I book you for filing a false report.”
“But there are bank records, a witness statement—” Kate began.
“I don’t care what you think you have!” the sheriff cut her off, physically pushing her toward the door. “Your case is closed. The verdict stands. If you come back here with this nonsense again, you know what’ll happen.”
People from town were sitting in the waiting area. They whispered and pointed at her.
“The thief is back,” Kate heard someone say. “Stole from kids, and now she’s accusing innocent people.”
Meanwhile, Tamara had invited her neighbors over for coffee in Frank’s kitchen. A new, expensive tea set with gold trim sat on the table. Pouring tea, she played the part of a long-suffering martyr.
“Can you believe it? That Kate is back from prison. Now she’s telling everyone I murdered her father. The girl’s gone completely feral in there. We need to ask the sheriff to run her out of town before she hurts someone.”
The neighbors shook their heads, clucking their tongues in sympathy.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, they say. Her mother was always a bit strange, wasn’t she? Quiet, with shifty eyes.”
“Exactly,” Tamara agreed. “It’s in her blood. First theft, now she’s making murder threats. I’m scared of her, girls. Five years in prison can teach you all sorts of terrible things.”
The next day, Kate took a bus to the county seat to visit the District Attorney’s office. Maybe someone there would listen. A young receptionist was flipping through a fashion magazine, looking bored.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, not bothering to look up.
“No, but it’s urgent. It’s about a murder,” Kate said.
The receptionist finally raised her head. “A murder? And who are you?”
When Kate gave her name, the girl’s expression soured. “Oh, you’re the one from the charity case… The next available appointment is in two weeks. You can leave a written complaint.”
With a trembling hand, Kate wrote out her statement, detailing all the facts. The receptionist took the paper, but immediately picked up the phone and began whispering to someone. A few minutes later, she hung up and said coldly, “You’ve been asked to leave the building. Your case is closed and will not be reviewed. If you continue to harass this office, you will be charged with perjury.”
Kate spent that night in an old, dilapidated shed on the edge of town. Only old Mrs. Davis, who was nearly deaf, had agreed to let her stay. The other neighbors were either afraid or simply wanted nothing to do with a convicted felon. The shed was cold and damp, but it was a roof over her head.
Around midnight, a new SUV pulled into the yard. Kate recognized the engine—it was Andy. Her ex-husband entered the shed without knocking, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her hard.
“Listen to me, Kate. Stop spreading these lies about my mother. Your dad was losing his mind before he died, talking all sorts of nonsense. Those papers you have are worthless. You say one more word, and you’ll be right back in prison, and this time you won’t get out. Understand?”
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